PSOH Dinner & A Show
by tigersilver
Summary: When on a 'date', do as the Romans do...Leon interprets classic 'romance' for Count D. With a little femmeslash thrown in at a pinch.
1. Chapter 1

_**Dinner & A Show…**_

_**Reservations & Appetizers**_

Jill was just shy of twenty minutes late. Leon had left her all the paperwork from the last case when he'd sped out the precinct door a half hour early… and then, of course, he'd expected her to be at the Shop well before time, so she did it half to tease him and half 'cause it was hard to find a parking space in the crowded streets of Chinatown at 7 p.m.

Her fellow detective looked like he'd been pacing – flushed and little frazzled – and the Count seemed slightly out-of-kilter, as well.

"Shit, Jill! Where've you been?" was how Leon greeted her and then instantly turned his attention to the man standing over by the sofa and urged: "We gotta go, Count – come on, let's get a move on."

The Count slid gracefully in her direction, dressed to the hilt in yet another gorgeous outfit Jill had never seen before. He smiled a greeting and spoke much more softly than her so-called friend.

"Young Christopher is asleep, Miss Jill. He should be no trouble. I've left you a snack if you are hungry later—"

The pleasant even tones of the Count were interrupted by Leon's tugging his elbow ("She can figure that shit out! Damn it, we're gonna be late!") and physically attempting to drag him right out the door.

"Detective! I will not be rushed, please." That was said firmly, heels of his jeweled slippers dug firmly into the Turkish carpet.

"Not by you."

Leon's face fell. D wasn't budging.

"But...!"

"Now, Miss Jill, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, there is a high tea over there on the table for later this evening and I've written down my cell number, as well as this key."

A huge brass key on a red ribbon was presented with a nod. Jill's eyes widened. It wasn't likely she was going to mislay this baby: it was the size of small breadbox, and all fanciful curlicues and engraving.

"Please lock up carefully when we leave," the Count continued, ignoring Leon's irritated gyrations by the door.

"T-chan here is accustomed to guarding the Shop, so you'll be quite safe, and Chris attended a birthday party today and is very tired, so he shouldn't wake. If he does, there's warm milk and cookies – enough for three, since Pon-chan will wake too, no doubt. Pon-chan and T-chan will put Chris back to bed for you - no need to worry about _that_ - and we'll be back early, I'm sure, but don't hesitate to call me if something seems amiss."

Jill grinned happily at the elegant Chinese man and hastened to assure him that all would be well. He was quite beautiful tonight, in a midnight blue cheongsam and cream surcoat embroidered with peacock tails and forest-green vines. And she'd actually been looking forward to this, 'cause then Leon would owe her one big favor later. Which meant a lot in terms of manning boring stake-outs or getting endless cups of coffee. Not to mention that tiny part of her which enjoyed watching Leon and the Count caper and pose in their mating dance. She found it amusing, and sweet, and rooted for them secretly, even though they'd now both joined the ranks of 'gay, married or taken.'

Shame, really, but nothing she wasn't used to. Not in L.A.

"Don't worry about it, Count. I've got little brothers and sisters, so I'm used to all this. We'll be fine while you're gone, you'll see."

"Can we get _going,_ damnit?" That was Leon, who was back to pacing, in short irregular circles over by the door. "We have a reservation!"

"If you are sure this is no trouble, then thank you, Miss Jill." The Count turned to Leon, finally. "Will I need a wrap, do you think? Is it cold?"

"No, well, maybe... I don't know; bring it – you can leave it in the car."

Leon grabbed the Count again, this time by the forearm, and wasted no time ushering him firmly over to the door. Jill noticed his fingers were careful even if his body language spoke _force_.

"Thanks, Jill. Owe you one," he threw back at her over his shoulder, as they departed.

Jill waited. There it was, the careful snick of the lock in the door and one last faint protest from the Count, who still objected to being hurried. Leon answered inaudibly, and shut the car door on the Count's voice.

Jill wondered just what Leon had planned for the evening. She grinned – it wasn't hard to imagine - at least what Leon _hoped _was going to happen - although she herself couldn't quite wrap her head around a gay date. Probably a lot like a straight one, with maybe more circumspection. But hey, it was California, so at least they could enjoy their 'date' in peace. As for her, she had the new J.D. Robb to look forward to… and the pile of _Cosmos _she'd been meaning to read or toss.

Jill spared a thought for the Count as she took her stuff out of her bag and stacked it neatly on the cushions of the couch. She always enjoyed seeing him, in part because he was so good to look at – total eye candy and a really charming manner. And unusual, like a hot-house flower in among the marigolds. An odd way to describe a man, she decided, but it fit. She'd dated an Asian guy once, back in college. He'd been good-looking too, but he couldn't hold a candle to the Count. The Count had more sex appeal than the "It Girl' in his littlest beringed finger.

Maybe that was Leon's downfall. He'd always been girl-crazy before he started coming to the Shop.

_ PSOHPSOHPSOHPSOHPSOHPSOH_

Leon parked the car around the corner from the restaurant. He'd driven all of five blocks through Chinatown, but it felt like a lot longer with the Count sitting silent and stuck-up in the passenger side, fiddling with his shawl and fan.

"We're here, D."

Leon got out of the car, hesitated indecisively, and then went round to the Count's door to open it for him and hand him out. The Count was a grown man, damn it, could open his door all by himself, but this was 'date,' _damn it_, and Leon had been too well trained. He stood there waiting, hand out, feeling like an ass as the Count took it and fluidly extracted himself from Leon's old clunker, and he then locked and closed the door with a slam after making sure D had removed all the folds of his expensive fabric from the door jamb .

"Wait, Detective! Where exactly are we going?"

The Count hadn't budged once he stood on the pavement, even when Leon warily reached out to grab his hand.

"Dinner."

Leon had progressed from his usual, run-of-the-mill 'impatient' to damn near 'frantic'. They only had an hour left before the movie started and that was at a complex several miles away. At least he'd thought to buy the tickets already, like the smart guy he was. But dinner was supposed to be leisurely; a chance to talk about stuff, 'get to know each other better' in date-speak, and now his great-though highly unoriginal-plan was rapidly going down the drain.

"_Why_ are we going out to dinner, Mr. Detective? We could have eaten at home with Christopher."

"'Cause I'm hungry, that's why, and I wanted to go out."

The detective waited a beat but the Count said nothing. His expression was funny, though. Not 'bad' funny, just…funny.

"Come on, D, we'll be late if we don't hurry—"

"Late for what, Detective?"

D moved along, finally, one hand coming to rest lightly on Leon's jacketed arm.

"You'll see."

And the detective breathed an internal sigh of relief when the Count didn't immediately object to _that_, too.


	2. Chapter 2

_**PSOH Dinner & A Show**_

_**Salad, Relevés & An Aperitif**_

Jill found the Sterno can under the sterling-plate hot water carafe and lit it carefully, placing the spent match in Leon's ashtray. She lifted the domed lid from a huge silver-plate oval platter to discover a multitude of tiny sandwiches, little iced cakes and still-warm almond-and-honey scones. There were jams and jellies, clotted cream, preserves, conserves and pats of butter, all arranged lovingly on a second covered tray. A third dish revealed a champagne fruit compote, a _pot au chocolate_ and sliced lemon-blueberry bread, presented in smaller rectangular trays like a bento, and just as carefully displayed with mint and lavender for garnish. It was quite a spread, what the Count had left for her as a 'snack'. She wondered if Leon had any idea just how much trouble Count D had gone to for the 'babysitter'.

It was really was quiet in the Shop, she noticed. There was usually a bustle – yips and purring, squeals and barks – so this was oddly unsettling. She couldn't even detect the noise of the traffic or people passing by in the street. There were recumbent cats everywhere – she'd nearly sat on one earlier – and birds with beaks tucked under wing and tanks full of drifting fish. A few puppies and rabbits and ferrets reclined among the cats, also napping, all in harmony. And the goat-beast – 'T-chan', the Count called him - also appeared to be deeply asleep in the far corner of the couch. Jill wondered vaguely just what magic it was that made them all get along.

She decided to wait for later to eat her 'snack.' She'd wolfed down a greasy burger in the car on the way here and her stomach had to settle before she could contemplate any more food, no matter how temptingly displayed. But tea…well, she could have a cup of tea and relax on the sofa.

The couch was actually very comfy – deep, lofty cushions and wide enough to put one's feet under one in a classic snuggle position – so she opted for staying right there with her book and assorted magazines. Jill would've liked to look around, check out the rooms down the hallway where Chris's room was. Maybe see the more exotic animals Leon mentioned from time to time or the beach (beach!) Chris kept talking about. But something stopped her; innate courtesy, perhaps, or the sneaking suspicion the Count would hear about every move she made later.

Which was strange, 'cause she'd never really appreciated the Count's air of mystery before, no matter how often Leon blathered about it. But the Shop felt 'special' somehow. Not your normal, average, gerbil-infested puppy palace. Maybe, just maybe, there was something to Leon's bullshit after all.

_ PSOHPSOHPSOHPSOHPSOHPSOH_

"This was very nice of you, Detective. Most thoughtful."

Leon grimaced. He hated how the Count remarked on it in that surprised manner every single time, like it was unheard of for him to be a decent human being. It was same annoying pattern every time, too: the raised eyebrows, the supercilious smile and that faint, annoying titter of mocking laughter, even though D had to know by now exactly how Leon felt.

Bullshit. He hoped D really did think he was being 'thoughtful.' He wanted this evening to be _nice_, something D would remember fondly when he climbed into his lonely bed later.

Something to hold on to, in the dark.

Leon had brought him to the same Chinese place the Count had taken him once before, the place where the chef had turned out to be a psycho cannibal. The food was still good, though, even with that particular chef incarcerated, and he knew D would like it, all veggies and tofu dressed up in brilliant garb. He was pretty happy, too; his chicken tasted like recognizable chicken, although Leon was sure it was really something else.

"Did you have some case you wished to discuss in private, Detective? I assume that's why you brought me here, well away from Christopher and the Shop."

"No case, not tonight. Just wanted to eat out, that's all." There was a small pause, while Leon swallowed and the Count glanced away at the other diners. "With you."

The Count's eyebrows climbed nearly to his hairline. He was clearly registering surprise.

Damn, he had to think of something else for them to talk about, and quickly, before D came up with some half-assed reason to head home. Leon was rusty, yeah, but even _he_ knew he couldn't sit here like a bump on a log all night. What the hell had he talked about when he was dating before? Not much really; they did most of the talking, the women, or else he droned on about work and bored them silly.

Not that it mattered much if he talked, since (at least until very recently) he had just wanted a good fuck in exchange for a nice dinner, nothing more.

_Bad attitude_. It would get him nowhere with D. Leon knew that if he knew nothing else. So, uh, conversation, then. That was what was needed.

"So, Count, where'd you grow up?"

That was always safe, like the weather, and maybe he'd learn something good. Some fact or tidbit – background info - that would help him understand D a little better, see him more clearly, strip off the friggin 'mystery' the pretty bastard wrapped around him like his fringed shawl. Then maybe Leon's squirmy brain could be at peace with his renegade body, which was tense and stiff and aching lustily under his 'nice' clothes, his throat tight and dry in reaction. He _definitely_ appreciated that blue thing D was wearing – it was tighter than the Chinese dresses the Count usually wore during Shop hours - and the cream cutaway coat over top brought out the beauty of those blazing, mismatched eyes. Leon swallowed, staring at his 'chicken' with an effort and concentrated on pushing it idly round his plate instead of staring at D's throat.

"Eh? What's that, Detective?" The Count was clearly startled at his question. They had barely spoken of their respective pasts before.

"You heard me, D. What was your childhood like?"

"Err, I don't really think…"

_ PSOHPSOHPSOHPSOHPSOHPSOH_

It was a little before nine when Chris stumbled through the parlor door, obviously groggy and not quite awake. Pon-chan was just behind him and Jill thought he'd trip over her. She got off the couch in a hurry, discarding her book, to make sure she was there to catch him if he stumbled over the raccoon swarming under his feet.

Not a _raccoon _– a European badger. The Count had been quite firm about that. Or maybe it was the other way around. Whatever, it was stripy and had bright, curious eyes and it was cute.

"Chris? You okay?" the detective asked, concerned at the flush of what could be fever on his little-boy face, setting a gentle hand on one thin shoulder and guiding him to the couch.

"_Umm, yeah, jus' sleepy. I had to pee."_ Chris mumbled as he stared around. "_Where's the Count, Aunt Jill_?" Pon-chan scrambled up on the sofa between them and leaned against Chris's shoulder.

Jill didn't find it at all strange that she knew exactly what his wide-eyed look was asking.

"He went out with your brother, Chris. They'll be back soon."

Jill took the fancy lids off the feast again and motioned towards the tea.

"Are you hungry? Want something to eat?"

"_I do_." The voice was female, softly accented, and Jill barely heard it, jostling the thoughts in her head. "_I want some tea, please_."

T-chan cracked an eye open at the sound of conversation breaking up the peaceful silence.

Oh my. Pon shouldn't be trying to talk to this Jill-woman, he thought. He sat up from his nap, yawning. He'd have to do something about that.

"_Psst_, Pon! Stop it! You know we're not supposed to speak to them unless the Count's here. Cut it out!"

_ PSOHPSOHPSOHPSOHPSOHPSOH_

Leon had gotten tickets for 'Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,' an artsy-fartsy foreign film he kind of thought D might like. There was all that cool Asian martial arts stuff and it was Chinese subtitled, so D at least could understand the language, even if Leon spent his time reading really fast. He bought caramel _and_ buttered popcorn, Raisinettes and malt balls, Goobers, Twizzlers and Dots, thinking the sickeningly sweet conglomeration might make some excuse for dessert (since he'd rushed D so much through dinner), and a huge Cherry Coke, to share.

The Count liked the Raisinettes very much and consumed the popcorn and candy with gusto, eyes fixed on the action after he got over the shock of Leon being thoughtful twice in one evening. He _oohed _and _ahhed _over the fight scenes (much to Leon's secret amusement) and sighed fondly through the angsty parts when the lovers met. Halfway through, Leon snuck his hand over the armrest and grabbed D's, curling his fingers tight in embarrassment and blushing like crazy at what he'd gone and done. The Count allowed his slightly sticky, buttery hand to rest in Leon's, calmly switching to the other when reaching for the popcorn, and they spent the rest of the film just like that.

_ PSOHPSOHPSOHPSOHPSOHPSOH_

Jill poured two more cups of the Count's fragrant tea from a Limoges pot that probably cost more than she made in a month – and then another, 'cause T-chan obviously wanted some too. She wasn't sure how she knew that, but it was probably the Shop getting to her, just like Leon said. You did weird things here, and heard voices, and half-believed in the visions the incense brought on. It didn't faze her, at least not too much. The faint aroma of her mother's angelfood cake went a long way toward maintaining her general feeling of contentment.

"_Thank you, Jill_."

There was that voice again, high and sweet. It sounded like a little girl's, but there was a heady overtone of 'adult' laced through. And it sounded foreign, vaguely British, and very cultured as well.

Young Christopher gobbled down three tiny sandwiches, two cream cakes and another cup of tea and then curled up on the cushions, sleepy and replete. They all sat there for a minute, stuffed dolls in a row, till T-chan abruptly surged up off the couch. He grabbed Chris's hand and pulled him up, too, much more gently, though.

"_Time for bed, young man! Say goodnight to Miss Jill, now_."

Oh, great, now there was another voice, deeper and definitely male. Handsome, virile male. Jill blinked and put her cup down.

"_G'night, Aunt Jill. Will they be back soon?"_

There was a tiny hint of anxiety in the boy's unheard voice. Jill leaned forward to give him a quick hug and ruffle his hair.

"They'll be back before you know it, Chris. Go with T-chan now and get some sleep."

Somehow Jill knew she wasn't needed to tuck Chris into bed; T-chan was more than capable of taking care of that. Also, the raccoon-thing stayed on the couch with her, clutching her cooling tea in tiny, human-like hands. Jill wasn't sure what to make of that. She'd met Pon-chan and T-chan many times, whenever she came with Leon, or stopped by on her own. But still, she didn't think the animals were as comfortable with her as they were with Chris and Leon. It was kinda nice, though, having company. Made her feel at home.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Dinner & A Show…**_

_**The Entrée**_

The mist was rising from the pavement. It had rained, hard and furious, while they'd been in the movie theatre, and now vapor curled up from the tarmac under their feet. D looked up at Leon's seedy run-down apartment building and then at Leon, standing by the open car door.

"Is this what you wanted, Detective?"

Leon couldn't tell if that tone was accusatory or just inquiring. He pushed the car door shut quietly and moved closer to the still figure before him, putting a hand out without thinking and brushing D's shoulder.

"Yeah. That okay?"

"And young Christopher? Surely you aren't suggesting that I stay the night?"

"No! No. Just for a little while, D."

The pause stretched and stretched, till the detective was afraid to break it. He kept his face expressionless when D nodded finally and turned toward the steel door. _He_ would _not_ say 'please.'

"I suppose it can't be helped, can it?" the Count huffed. "We're already here."

Leon wondered how much to believe of D's exaggerated moodiness. He squared his shoulders with effort and smiled in the Count's general direction, nodding politely. It wasn't worth the effort to start a fight right now, though, not if he was going to get what he craved more and more each minute, so they'd leave it at that.

The detective followed the Count up the dingy grey-painted stairwell to the fourth floor – the elevator wasn't working, but then it never did. The faint scent the Count wore wafted back over Leon, an invisible storm of pheromones that had him half-hard already just from inhaling. He warily eyed the straight unyielding set of the Count's back and the sway of his narrow hips before him.

What exactly was the signal the Count was sending? Was D really angry? Or just a tease? He was certainly genuinely snippy to find himself here and not back at the Shop. Maybe Leon shouldn't have assumed he'd want this…not so soon. Not so fast.

Then again, how would they ever get anywhere if he didn't assume?

They arrived at his unassuming apartment without exchanging another word. Leon leaned politely past D to unlock the door and open it, turning on only the hall light 'cause he knew the apartment was still a mess. He'd run out of time earlier to clean up and hide crap, what with getting the tickets and the dinner reservations and the stupid flowers he'd bought on a whim and then left behind. There was a huge ungainly bunch of birds-of-paradise he'd been meaning to present to D, a 'manly' flower, or so the shopkeeper said, now stuck haphazardly in the grimy tub in a plastic bucket he'd had kicking around. Leon hadn't been able to force himself to take them along when he'd rushed out the door at 6:30, slicked-down hair still wet and collar sticking up. It wasn't like him, to give flowers. Not to a guy, even a pretty one. And he wasn't positive it wouldn't piss D off more. But maybe he could still hand them over later; that is, if D was still talking to him later.

Leon was exhausted. This dating shit was hard work. He'd spent most of his time tonight dancing around subjects of potential controversy, listening too carefully to every word the Count let fall, weighing it, cross-examining it for 'deep' meaning or insult or ennui. He'd been furiously embarrassed all through dinner, trying to make polite non-combative small talk with the one person with whom he usually comfortably fought. All those questions, and D's non-answers, and he'd had to keep on biting his tongue. And they hadn't said all that much; not really, which was not normal for them. Usually they had no problem talking, at least at the Shop.

It hadn't gotten any better as the evening wore on. He'd felt incredibly awkward at the movies, clutching D's hand and liking it, wondering if anyone would see and trying not to care. It was downright weird, dating a guy. Especially _this_ guy. This guy was strange and very attractive in a non-Western way and practically breathed 'class' and 'culture' from every pore. Leon felt even clumsier than usual and stupidly 'American', too, here in his lousy low-rent apartment, obviously expecting the mysterious Count to let him have some. But he wanted it so bad, enough to do this stupid shit, enough to make an effort to convince D Leon was some sort of prize.

Leon knew he wasn't. All those women had told him so, in high school, right on through college and even after he got his job as a newbie detective. Boring and stiff, or careless and willful, and far too hung up on his passionate quest for justice to make a decent companion. Too single-minded; too intense. He had been a good screw, though—phenomenal, even—at least they admitted that much. That one lone talent might be all he had going for him now, here with D. The thought stung Leon's sore heart, 'cause D's mood right now was kinda…well, _bitchy_, to be nice about it, and the Count might not even want Leon tonight. The detective's one area of expertise in the pinch-hit game of dating might not matter much if he never got past first base.

They moved silently into the living room-cum-bedroom of his tiny efficiency and Leon shrugged out of his sports coat and tossed it on the beer-stained couch. It was old; he should buy a new one, if they were ever going to do this again.

He wanted to; for all that it took his knees out from under him, being seen with D in public like _that_.

The Count unbuttoned his own surcoat without speaking and draped it neatly over Leon's desk chair, his back firmly to the detective still standing a little ways away. He slipped off his dainty shoes and laid his lovely shawl down carefully on the top of the coat, taking a moment to fold it carefully first. When he started on the cross-wise buttons at the throat of his tight blue silk tunic, elbows out demurely, Leon surged forward to stand in front of him on unsteady feet and grasp D's manicured hands with his own, now hot and damp with suppressed desire.

"Let me. Please."

The Count drew his fingers back and looked up at Leon with a challenge in his eyes.

"If you wish."

Leon's lips were trembling when he pressed a kiss on that pale cheek a moment later, his fingers stumbling through the last of the bazillion tiny fabric-covered buttons and drawing the Count's tunic down slowly. It slipped off white shoulders and slid down D's narrow, perfect body in a strip-tease that made Leon shake in anticipation and need. D shut his eyes and let himself be kissed again and Leon hoped to god he was doing it right. Was he too hesitant? Too gentle? Did D want it hard?

When had _he_ first realized what he wanted? What moment was it when it hit him, that it was the Count who lit Leon's fire with fucking gasoline and jet-fuel? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the fact Leon had _this_, here in his arms, right now.

He slid his worshipful mouth across D's cheek till he found the warmth of D's parted lips, licking them and nipping the fullness of the lower one gently, coaxing them open to reach the sweetness within. Caramel and Cherry Coke laced over Leon's tongue, masking the wilder, honeyed taste of D that he'd gotten used to over these last few weeks. _Barely _used to. It still shocked him whenever their mouths met, always furtively, in curtained corners and the kitchen alcove and in the not-much-privacy-but-enough of Leon's old beater of a car.

D was passive in Leon's embrace, neither giving nor pulling away, letting Leon drag his tunic down till it lay crumpled at his feet, doing nothing to stop the hesitant tongue that tentatively explored his slightly parted lips. It was only when Leon's hand went to the bulge at the apex of D's tight cream trousers that the Count truly responded at last, finally returning Leon's increasingly desperate kisses with interest.

"Nnn."

The Count's small sound of pleasure encouraged his would-be lover greatly. It was killing Leon to feel so unsure. But he'd learned to take nothing for granted with D; not to demand when he'd be better off asking, and politely. Sometimes. Usually. More often than before.

They kissed very slowly, nuzzling each other like they were underwater and to open one's mouth was to drown, or as if they'd been set to 'slo-mo' by some unseen godlike hand and constrained to experience every tiniest touch taken and given as a '10' on the Richter. It was shattering to be so spell-bound.

D spread his long elegant fingers across Leon's broad shoulders and his grip warmed his lover's flush and made him hope for more. Leon's hands crept carefully, purposefully, stripping the Count's skin-tight trousers down long smooth thighs. He caressed D's flanks in passing the first time and then went back to feel again, hot fingers shivering across D's skin, kneading firm buttocks gently, lightly approaching and then stroking the Count's swelling cock. The detective fell to his knees with this and kissed the tip with tongue-tip only as he eased the trousers down D's calves and the Count shivered involuntarily in reaction, a ghost of a moan surprised from his red-lipped mouth.

_No underwear_.

_That_ made Leon happy; gave him a thrill, 'cause it might mean D had thought about this, the culmination of their date, at least enough to plan ahead. Leon wanted D to be thinking about it, like he did, all the fucking time. He got to his feet again, running his hands up the curve of D's ass flirtatiously and resting them securely on the jut of hips and the beginnings of the narrow waist above them. Another kiss was exchanged and Leon felt better; D was hardening where Leon's thigh brushed against him; skin and muscle and heart rate didn't lie even if pretty, painted mouths did.

The Count, now utterly, delightfully naked, stepped forward without a murmur from the pile of his discarded garments and put a curious palm against Leon's chest, casually pushing him back. Leon pressed chaste lips to his pale forehead and the blue-black locks of his hair, wherever he could reach from an elbow's length, waiting curiously to see what D would do next.

D began his own slow disrobing of Leon, every scrape of his azure-painted fingernails through the cotton-poly mix an electric current charging his lover's skin. Leon went with D's advancing motion and walked them slowly backward toward his bed while the Count continued his languid unbuttoning of him, laying butterfly kisses down the growing gap in the detective's shirt in some form of carnal short-hand that the detective understood very well.

The bed was made—at least he'd gotten _that_ done in his hurry—and Leon had to fumble behind him to yank the comforter down, entangled in his own shirt sleeves, with D's mouth fastened firmly to one nipple, teasing it with the very tip of his wicked-good tongue.

It was mind-blowing. It always was, whenever D touched him – or he even _thought_ about D touching him – and Leon had learned to hope for that particular fire that pulsed through him and ghosted across his nerves.

They tumbled, still in 'slo-mo', on to Leon's king-sized bed, the detective tugging the blue oxford off in frantic counterpoint just before he let them fall the crucial last few inches. The Count was carried atop him and came to rest there with a self-satisfied smirk, deftly working Leon's zipper, calmly resuming the ever-lasting kiss they'd begun in the tiny hallway with only the barest of pauses.

It was like _that_, this time, both slow and fast, in turn, until Leon wasn't sure which end was up, what he should do to make D feel good, or if he'd get a chance.

The Count had turned aggressor, firm hands tugging off Leon's 'best' chinos and the brand-new Hanes boxers beneath them, fierce lips dotting tiny fiery kisses down Leon's straining thighs, then confidently sweeping blazing trails up and over Leon's exposed chest and belly till they settled at last on Leon's monumental hard-on and red mouth and aqua-painted fingers both squeezed and sucked at him sensuously, fingernails clicking together and mingled with the excruciatingly exquisite pull of tongue and teeth-sheathed lips. Leon held his breath—or rather, stopped breathing—roiling upwards within D's grasp.

He was released, teased and tormented again, D's lips followed after his fingers, trailing cross the plane of Leon's belly and thorax, up to nip at throat and bicep and twitching armpit, sweeping down, down to follow the natural gravity of Leon's arching form and coming—like precision clockwork; like the inevitable move of the tectonic plates— again to the juncture of Leon's thighs with shuddering result. The Count's agile tongue played in the blonde tangle of curls there and dipped into the shadows of Leon's thighs. Leon nearly embarrassed himself completely, stunned blue eyes staring unseeing as he was felled and flayed of all inhibition by that pink tongue, those delicately painted talons.

Some small part of Leon's free-floating mind—the logical bits—realized the Count was a very sensual man; he had petting and stoking down to a fine art. Must be handling all that fur and feathers, lizard-skin and fish fins, day after day.

_Ahh. And. Oh, God! Fuck! _

So close – but the detective wasn't ready.

"Stop! Wait...for...me…please." Leon ground out this order, this plea, gasping it with his hips thrust entreatingly and without volition, trembling violently under the curling fingertips and the embrace of D's warm mouth.

It was too soon, too fast, and far too unbalanced, all at once after the endless languid moments that had come just before, and Leon wrapped his unsteady hands around D's silky black head and tugged it up and away from his tortured, throbbing dick. He reached lower, fingers tangling on themselves, found the joint where D's arms met his narrow body and tugged the whole of him gently along the length of his own hyper-sensitive body, till he could poke their respective noses together in an approximation of the Eskimo kisses his Mom had given the detective when he was much younger and rest his fevered face at last against D's cool cheek.

The Count didn't argue this; perhaps he too found it hard to inhale enough oxygen. The detective was grateful the odd eyes weren't scornful but he couldn't let this crap go on without saying something.

"_D_."

Leon moaned the single syllable, ribcage heaving. He was gonna die for sure if his lover kept screwing with his head like this; his poor heart would simply fly from his chest. D pulled away far enough to consider his detective curiously, eyes unreadable in the spill from the hall light, a high spot of color staining each sculpted cheekbone.

"Let me touch you, too." That was the solution. Right there.

"D."

D's lips curved a little and he seemed suddenly shy, even nervous, lashes fanning down and more faint color rising, so that Leon had no choice but to pull him close and kiss him again lingeringly 'cause he'd never seen D look quite like that. The Count's hands had stilled and then slowed, patting Leon's shoulders softly, and they moved to a long, slow crawl down Leon's torso when D nodded his acquiescence, the purple-and-gold shining brilliantly, reflecting all the light in the room.

This time, Leon could think, at least a little, and notice again all D's attributes—those tiny things about D that drove him to the brink and kept him in a state of constant dangle.

The detective's rangy body was warmed by the Count's, who always complained of the cold, but radiated such heat even so. It felt good against the cool inhuman wash of the air conditioner and he pressed closer, trying to touch every inch of D, absorb him into his need, so that D would always be there.

Leon allowed his own hands wander down D's elegant shoulders and spinal cord, smoothing over the curve of the Count's tight-muscled bottom and into the cleft of silken cheeks, lightly caressing his sac and balls from behind till D pushed his hips against Leon's and undulated in slow mockery of the dance they had started, paused and were only just beginning again. D's skin was softer than the fabric he habitually wore, softer than a newborn's, and smoother than satin damask. Leon slowed down immediately; he didn't want this to end too soon.

D brushed against Leon's abdomen and chest like a whisper as he moved, cranking the needle on the gauge of the detective's craving to overdrive. The tangled dark strands of his hair brushed against Leon's chin as they wove gaping wet mouths together, tickling the faint fair stubble Leon had missed shaving that second time. The Count's features were as smooth as the rest of him, with no short, rough hairs to mar his chin, only sculpted angles and finely drawn features, a pen-and-ink sketch by some Renaissance Master, blurred now as he alternately relaxed and tensed in Leon's arms. But his mouth was hard and fierce, a visceral wanting from a full-fledged predator, and it drove Leon crazy, just like the cinnamon-cardamom-clove scent that habitually arose from the hollows and pulse points of D's all too elegant form. Leon wanted more, like he always did, always would.

He wanted _more_, and he would give it, show D what dinner-and-a-movie could never express.

Leon gathered his ebbing will and at last rolled over, taking the Count with him, till he was the one on top and D a lovely item complacent beneath his fond gaze.

God, the detective realized for the umpteenth time—D was fucking _gorgeous_, so much so that Leon accelerated from starving to rapacious. He gnawed his way up D's long white throat, pressing his tongue delicately into one well-shaped ear and breathing gustily until D squirmed and turned his own mouth to seek Leon's. That was an 'ffing inferno, that was, and they melded, flesh meeting at every point in their tangled sprawl. D's cock flexed against Leon's, side by side in the pulsing cradle of their mated hips, and the sensation of feeling his lover's cock so intimately wrenched a startled Leon from D's lips. He had this overwhelming desire to play with D's turgid, cum-filled organ, take it into his mouth and tease mercilessly, suck it until D was helpless and mewling and starving as _he_ was, and with this act of mastery literally force D to let go of whatever leftover annoyance that lingered.

He was good for _something_, Leon knew, if only this. He _could_ make D want him; pleasure him till the proud red mouth begged, take his fucking gorgeous body to a fury of slick skin and slippery, jetting fluids. He_ would_ fill his scornful, smirking lover with the essence of Leon Orcot, raw and unyielding, and drag the so-charming Count D unresisting down to Leon's own primal level…and keep him there, safe within the bounds of the detective's jealous grasp.

A solitary finger tracing Leon's nape startled him 'midst the act of conquering; gentled him, soothed the fierceness of the beast, and he reluctantly stilled his salacious tongue and brought his smeared mouth slowly back to D's in a delicate closed-lipped caress. He had tasted the faint rime of D's first small satisfaction and taken it as his own. He'd vowed to drink it all, but then his mad gaze caught the scattering of teardrops trembling on D's long lashes, and the penitent detective hurriedly licked them all up instead and swallowed, hoping in his heart-of-hearts that he hadn't hurt D in his own tempest.

Hadn't been too rough and ready when the Count's lovely body seemed suddenly very fragile in Leon's selfish arms. Orcot held it tight against him, legs entwined, and pushed his shamed face into the forgiving pillows so that D wouldn't see. There were marks on D's thighs already. Bruises, dark and possessive. He knew it, having just left them there.

Leon was a fucking pig when it came to what he wanted. He knew that, too – no amount of so-called 'dates' could make up for that one lousy fact.

"Mmm, Leon…touch me there again."

But D was actually smiling at him, unfazed, a quirk of flirty passion molding his bee-stung lips. Leon groaned at the sight and wondered if D had any idea of what he'd felt like just now…or what that come-hither expression did to him when all his natural defenses were stripped. He grasped D's slender wrists in one hand instead of blurting out all the tenderness D inspired and hauled them up high above D's glossy head, allowing his other hand to play across D's slim chest and the narrow bones of his pelvis, tuning the Count's pale body like an instrument to the rhythm of Leon's overarching need.

Shoulders flexing, arms spread wide as wings, Leon bent his shaggy head, a lion no longer rampant, his mouth returning like a magnet to D's still damp organ. He engulfed it, drew it in and devoured it with the sole goal of bestowing an Eden of pleasure, the Count rising up to meet him as the tide forced the shore, tight-lipped and white-hot with the wild flow of cum storming up his cock, only to explode a moment later against Leon's slurping tongue and twitching throat with no warning but the spasmodic jerk of his hips.

"Ahh! Ahh! Leon! _Aaahhh_…!"

The detective loved to hear that special cry; it made every sharp cut of D's daytime tongue all that much sweeter.

"Leon! _Le-on_!"

The detective covered the panting, chanting mouth with his salty one and pulled D hard into his embrace, reveling in D's satisfaction as if it were all his own. In the very far distant part of him that was still thinking somewhat rationally—it existed; Leon was less beastly than most humans and D appreciated that very much—Leon realized he was grateful that D was finally speaking to him in a language they could both understand. The Count's continued silence had frightened him more than he ever wanted to admit.

But this was good; really good. Fucking perfect. He'd make sure D got those stupid flowers. He'd go ahead and make another reservation for next Friday night. It might all just work out like he'd planned it; bring them closer, convince D he needed a steady man in his life.

But the detective's own appetite had not been forgotten.

After no more than a scant moment of recovery, D's slender fingers grasped Leon's penis, heavy and dangling like leaden weight between his perspiring thighs, and slowly transferred the damp residue of his own cum and Leon's saliva to the stretched skin and bulbous head, every thoughtful touch making Leon's heart stutter and thump in his breast. Leon jerked against D's palm and butted hard into the curl of his fingers – he was so fucking close, so fucking close!

D eased Leon's swollen cock down below his own half-hard member and rubbed it against the pucker of his reddish-pink opening, the minimal lubrication just enough to allow entry without pain. His other hand slithered 'round Leon's waist and down to his clenched butt and shoved his hips forward, urging him toward heaven. Leon went willingly, easing his way in with a smooth practiced motion that summoned a delicious sigh from D.

And had Leon been a poet, or a man given over to imagery, he'd have no doubt thought that D's ass was _a sheath for his sword and he was King Arthur; it was the tight cavern of his mother's sheltering womb;, it was a mind-altering journey to heaven, fanfare triumphant as he ascended, all wrapped up in D's sensuous skin. _

But the detective, for all his great heart, was not one to be mazed by mere words or pretty picture castles built entirely in his own mind. Leon simply found_ home_, and buried himself there deep and steady, unwilling to move, 'cause moving would mean he'd lose that indescribable sensation all the sooner and it had taken so long to get here, so many arduous miles of twisting half-steps and uneasy truces.

_Screw the world; he just wanted to stay like this. _

When D pinched him hard on the butt cheek, Leon bucked like a fly-bitten mule. That got him started, 'cause moving within D was eons better than staying still. D pushed back, his own cock rising, and Leon surged forward, and then they see-sawed, in tandem, hip bones smacking hard and hollow in an increasing fury that led only to culmination – a sure and certain 'little death.'

It was too damn fast again, and Leon didn't want to get there; not just yet, when D's sweet ass made him feel like a hero and he rode on a great wave of answered desire. But D murmured something sultry, and twisted up to meet him, fingernails raking down Leon's back in possession, and Leon felt his last shreds of control slipping away, his wayward body unable to prevent it, and he came too soon—far too soon, fuck it!— in a great flood of cum, his fast-shrinking self churning within his own salty fluid, and cried out.

"D! _Oh, God!_ D, D-_D_!"

The detective came crashing down, his biceps trembling, only catching himself at the very last second, and rolling sideways so that he wouldn't crush the writhing, moaning beauty beneath him on the bed, and captured his love's mouth in apology, tongue thrusting in a continuation of the dance they had started and only he had finished. D moaned and whimpered all the louder and fretfully pushed himself up against Leon's sweaty chest and thighs, and Leon shifted his weight to one side and brought a palsied hand to take control of the problem, stroking, pushing D's foreskin down and slithering down his taut shaft like a piston pumping. His fingers feathered along the ridge and then tightened, pulsing, and D arched up his back and clenched his eyes tight. Leon found him with his lips a second later, and replayed the movements of his fingers with all the strength of his mouth. It was enough, finally, and D ejaculated at last, pearlescent fluid shooting up and scattering like tiny peals through Leon's shaggy hair and across his hollowed cheeks.

But D was too quiet as he came, only exhaling a long hiss of release, and Leon felt a sudden, horrible fear that it had not been good enough. He had wanted to be so much more – to be D's dream, his fantasy, the fuck of his life. Had he failed, then, too caught up in his own personal nirvana?

The detective tickled D's slit with the tip of his tongue, swirling, pressing hard enough to cause the Count's hips to jerk under him, and sucked one final time, bound and determined to pull every reluctant drop of salty liquid down his swallowing throat.

"Leon!"

Gasping and squirming, his pleasure finally edging into pain, D yanked on Leon's damp hair to stop him and then used the blonde locks as a leash to draw his restless detective closer to his smiling mouth, brushing the barest of kisses on a furrowed brow when Leon grimaced at him.

"What are you so worried about, Detective?"

D's voice was amused, though still definitely breathless. Leon let his spinning head rest against the Count's smooth, hairless chest.

"Did it—" Leon blushed and turned his face into the hollow of D's shoulder, not so old that he couldn't practice a little self-protective hiding when it was. "Was it— what you wanted, D? Was it…good?"

_Do you love me, still, even if I am a selfish prick? The way you said you did? Please…please love me anyway, 'cause I don't think I can live without you, D; not any more… _

"Oh, is that all?"

D paused and smirked in that way he had, the one that drove Leon bonkers, and perhaps didn't realize just how cruel his tiny silence was.

"I am very satisfied, Detective, if that's what you're getting at. Considerably more than 'satisfied', actually. You are indeed excellent in bed."

Leon smiled wryly into D's shoulder. _Ouch_. That wasn't what he meant, but it would have to do. Maybe next time, if he did better, then D would say it, and shoo the last of these niggling little fears he had out the door.

Hey, but being in love _sucked_. It was fucking torture. Not that Leon would ever give it up or anything, never in a mill—

"-it again? Leon?"

"_Yeah_. One more time, D, before you gotta go back."


	4. Chapter 4

_**PSOH Dinner & A Show…**_

_**The Cheese Board & Nutmeats**_

The _Cosmo_ slipped from Jill's nerveless fingers and slithered down the side of the couch. She shifted and Pon-chan shifted with her, and they both slept a little more deeply than before.

"I have always been watching you."

The young woman had a faint English accent. Jill loved it immediately and wanted to hear more.

"Really? I never saw you. Have we met?"

The woman—and she was a woman, for all she looked like a little girl in those doll clothes—turned toward her, long blonde corkscrew curls falling over her lacy breast. Jill admired the Gothic ruffles of her dress. Pink House, maybe? Or some new designer she hadn't heard of…

"But, of course – _often_."

Pon-chan smiled secretively and reached out a well-groomed hand.

"I don't remember that…and I don't think I would have forgotten_ you_," Jill was puzzled at her own lack.

"No! You may not have noticed me." Manicured fingers slid through Jill's mussed-up hair. It was delightful; purely sinful in a sensuous way. Jill wasn't often petted, these days.

"I'm sorry—"

"It is no matter. You'll probably forget this time, too."

The hand grazed Jill's cheek. It reminded her a little of her mother, but there was something there that was not at all a mother's touch. She turned her face into it, and felt cool fingers sliding down.

"But _I_ will remember, never fear. For both of us," the high, sweet voice whispered, a tiny kiss pressed on Jill's chin.

They slept on and never heard the Count's key in the lock. They didn't see the lingering kiss Leon gave him before the two reluctantly pulled apart.

"Miss Jill! Miss Jill, you must wake now," said the Count, gently shaking her. His out-of-this-world eyes were brilliant…and soft, so soft. Jill grinned up at him immediately, rousing herself with a shiver and a settle.

"Huh? Umm…did I sleep?"

"Here, Pon-chan. Up you go." The Count plucked up the sleepy raccoon gently, stroking her. Leon leaned back against the Parlor wall, watching, his gaze never leaving the Count.

"Oh, damn, I'm so sorry, Count! I didn't mean to fall asleep! It was so—so comfortable!"

"No matter," and the Count's calm reply echoed oddly in the female detective's head.

Wait!_ What was that…?_

"Oh, God! Look at the time, Count! It's after midnight already! I'd better be getting home – let you get to sleep."

Jill fumbled her books and magazines into her backpack, gathering all her various bits-and-pieces. She caught sight of the silent Leon out the corner of her eye. He seemed relaxed and very satisfied, and Jill guessed the 'date' had turned out just like he'd wanted. Glancing at Count D's expression made her doubly sure, but she'd make sure to interrogate Leon tomorrow morning and torture him a little bit.

"Hey, Leon." Jill smiled at him, her eyes glittering with amusement. Lucky bastard. At least one of them was getting some. She wouldn't mind if the Count…but no, stupid to go _there_. _He_ looked pretty 'satisfied', too.

"Yo. Be careful going home."

They walked her over to the door, Leon and D, the Count handing her at the last moment a dainty linen napkin wrapped around left-over goodies from her high tea. Pon-chan clung to his shoulder the entire time, black gaze bright and curious, and Jill blinked at her in bafflement. For a scant second there, she'd thought she'd seen…_something else_…

"Hey, uh—thanks, Jill. I really appreciate it," Leon muttered under his breath in her ear when she was already more than half-way out the Shop door, keys jangling in one hand.

"No prob. You just owe me one, 'Mister Detective.'" Jill pitched her parting shot low, in a fairly accurate mimicry of the Count's courteous, very definitely _male_ voice. Leon blushed like a fire plug and promptly retreated, back to the Count's iron-gated doorway.

_ PSOHPSOHPSOHPSOHPSOHPSOH_

"Are you alright, Pon-chan? You seem sad." There was the real voice just behind Leon, murmuring softly to the raccoon cradled in his arms.

"I'm alright, Count, really…At least I got to see _her_—" Pon-chan sniffled.

No, Leon decided to himself. That had to be somebody else, but—

"Shush, now, dear one. Don't cry. I'm sure she'll be back soon – never fear."

Wait; what?! Pon-chan was the one sniveling? Since when did animals make sounds like that?

Leon spun on his heel silently, back to face the softly lit parlor and the odd sense of 'home' it always gave him. He opened his mouth when he caught sight of the very pretty blonde girl held close in D's embrace. She was teary-eyed, her pale face burrowed comfortably in the Count's shoulder, and dressed all in lace and whatnots and the detective had to force himself swallow down all the stupid jealousy that swamped him for an instant.

Oh. It was only Pon-chan. No…it was definitely a girl. Same voice, though. Not that raccoons _had_ voices, but it _was_ the same. At least his ears weren't deceiving him, though his eyes were definitely fucking him over.

Leon blinked again, considering all he knew and all he thought he knew, and decided to clear his throat loudly before shutting the Shop door. He was staying anyway, so there was no need to leave it unlocked.

And no need to let D know about…this.


End file.
